***
The last time I saw her, her hair was still silver, this time not from dye but from age. Her willow fingers gripped my oak hand. She was still so achingly beautiful that I couldn't help but stare, wondering how exactly I was supposed to continue living without her presence.
Her fingers flutter to my face, brushing away a tear that begins to trickle down my cheek.
"Hi," she says.
"I've been waiting for you to speak to me."
"So then why not speak first?"
"Because I'm not good at beginnings or endings, just middles."
"Me neither."
"I love you." I say.
"I love you." she says too. Then she exhaled quietly.
It's spring again, the flowers in our home are everywhere, but she isn't there to make daisy chains.
***
YOU ARE READING
A Rare Burst of Colour
Short Story"Autumn, after it has exploded into a brilliant range of colours, proceeds to suck all of them away until the spring, leaving a palette of variations of monochrome shades behind. It is in this weather that our souls colours are revealed and the res...
